FAT MAN WHAAA?

FAT MAN WHAAA?

If you are reading this and 'squeamish', my main question would be "How the hell did you make it this long on my friends list?"

Anyway - warning - gritty.

Because I'd rather be thought of as a 'great guest' rather than an 'infested fuck', I decided to go visit a hospital in Portugal to see 'what the hell is going on down there'.

AKA the 'dark side of the belly'.

AKA 'the parts of me I had declared legally dead because I haven't seen them in years'.

So there was still some itching down there.  Walked a couple kilometers to the city hospital.

At first, the lady was going to charge me the 'foreigner with no EU card' rate for seeing the doctor but after we chatted a bit, she very kindly decided to pretend I had an EU card.

Non EU rate:  100 EUR
EU rate:  18 EUR

Which is great because I am trying to hoard my small monies for my upcoming visit to the USA.

The poor lady was laughing hard half the time and the other half giving me the 'is he being funny or is he actually a crazy person' look.

I tend to get that a lot.

Looking at those rates tells me that in the USA we are doing it so very very wrong.

Anyway, I then got to sit in the waiting room for about four or five hours.  Much like all the jokes I've heard about medicine in England and such.  Fortunately, I've had to wait a lot all over the world so great.

In countries where I am the only white guy this doesn't happen.  There I get whisked (over my objections) straight to the doctors.  Here, most of the people are white so I didn't stand out.

At last, I got to see a doctor.  Sitting in the same room working at different desks were other doctors (including one who thought I was very amusing and actually spoke English) and a young lady I'd been chatting to in the waiting room.

When asked what the problem was, I displayed my complete lack of shame by saying "I think I either have a rash or insects living on my testicles!"  The lady I'd been chatting with in the waiting room helped translate to the stunned doctors.

Yes, I know many people would feel like dying of shame at a scene like that.  But if you think that is bad, read on.

So then they put me into one of those little examination rooms and four doctors (three males and one female) troop in.

After repeating to the doctor my issue he said "OK, could you take down your pants...."

(Logan drops pants and underwear)

"After you get up on the table."

You know, it is really tricky to get onto a table like that with your pants around your ankles.  But I struggled through it.  In retrospect, it is probably much better for the doctor instead of getting into a kneeling position in front of the guy with his pants down.

He examined me and I asked "Which is it?"

"You can put your pants on now." he told me since I wasn't reaching for them.  It was probably costing them sanity to see my unimpressive junk.

"Neither." he said.

No bugs is good news!

"What is it?"

"Fungus."

"How did I get it?"

"You are rather...large..."

"You mean I have fat man fungus?"  (I'd have rather called it 'fat fuck fungus' but fuck doesn't have as many meanings overseas as it does in the USA.  Sad.)

So they prescribed me two different creams to apply before bedtime.

Should be cleared up within a week.

Isn't it funny how much old fuckers talk about their physical health?  It's because they don't have much of it left.



CURIO SHOP

Sadly, not one of the ones that sell cursed items but good for people who want 'conversation pieces' and unique items to decorate their homes with.  If I had a home, it would probably end up looking a lot more like the shop.

Disclaimer:  I appologize for the picture quality.  Readers may remember that I had not one but TWO cellphones pick pocketed in Morocco.  So this is a really cheap cellphone.


First - how you get to the shop.

You find this church:

It is called:

St. Peter's Church.  While facing the door (as in the picture above) you go around the church toward the left (clockwise).

After about twenty meters on the opposite side of the street, you will see a small sign:

That is the shop.  Within is the lady who is my landlord as well.  Her name is Paula.

If you are wanting to stay in Faro for a bit, check with her to see if she has any rooms available.  I'm quite satisfied with my accommodations.

Anyway, here are some pictures of other items within the shop.  Again, I am sorry the picture quality is not as good as I'd like.

"Are you my mummy?"

Though not in Latin, Latin helps.

Shark teeth.

Note - this is a picture of a camera case she very much wanted in the blog.

In summary, stop on by there and give a browse!

That's about it for now - I will blog more when more stuff happens!

Logan

EPIC STRUGGLE TO PORTUGAL

THE WARM UP

Some countries have 'shitty' currency. For example, they don't let it out of the country or if they do, nobody else will exchange it.

Good examples of this include the Bosnian KM (convertible mark) and unfortunately the Moroccan dirham.

Giving dollars or euros to get dirham is a breeze.  Everyone wants to buy those valuable dollars and euros - nobody wants the dirham.  Aside from shopkeepers in Morocco.

Why countries like this don't just switch to a currency like the Euro or Dollar (like Cambodia did) is a mystery to me.  Probably nationalism.

Banks won't switch currency for you unless you have a residency card (because they suck) and getting money exchangers to buy it - despite them making a healthy profit on the transaction - is like pulling fucking teeth.

Fortunately, I tried to keep the amount minimal that I had so it was only about 100 euros worth I was trying to exchange.  I suspected some crap like this.

"Why not just change it at the border?" I hear some asking.  Experience.  Often same shit but less time and places to wander around asking why they don't want their shitty insular currency.  And doing it with all your worldly possessions on is even less fun.

So I got my 100 euros.  It might even be enough to get me - on a very circuitous route - to Faro (Portugal).



LEAVING MOROCCO


I almost didn't make it out of fucking Morocco.

After going through the crush of bodies (Moroccans don't really know or care about concepts like 'personal space') to get your passport stamped, you have to go along a footpath toward the Spanish side.

"We still got our colony on Africa bitches!" - Spain.

On the footpath, three Moroccan police (or border security - there's really no telling) that must look at your passport before you get to continue out of the country.

While one was looking at my passport and trying to figure out why it is literally twice as thick as every other passport he's seen, I struck up a little conversation with the third guard.  The first guard began telling the second guard he should take me back to the crush of bodies place to get another stamp.  Something about the one I already had (or just his day in general) did not please him.

The second guard took the passport but didn't seem really pleased about the prospect.  While the first one was busy with someone else in line, the third one took the passport and discretely handed it back to me making a very subtle head gesture that told me to sneak my ass out of there.

I scarpered.

Having made it to the Spanish side I noticed there was no where obvious to get a stamp.  Confusing.

You've got to look or someone will end up sending you back or saying you entered the country illegally or some crap.  It's never "Well, we do have a really shitty system so it's probably our fault" - no.  It's going to be your fault and you will pay.

So I went looking for someone to ask.

Found a guy dressed in a guard's uniform just sitting in an office.  I asked him "Where do I go to get this stamped?"

He had a stamp!  He also wanted to know if I'd caught the Superbowl.   Faking regret I told him I'd missed it.

He stamped the passport.  I did my best to remember where it was in case someone else had a problem finding it.  Yes, there are quite a few stamps and pages.  Enough to where I've noticed the security guards in the countries I'm in sometimes give up looking for theirs, figure it's in there somewhere, and just give me a stamp.

Handy.

Within minutes of crossing the border it was like I was back in 'modern' settings.

And I didn't have to listen to five times a day call to prayers from a super insecure god.  Yea!

Blue, blue sky and blue waters of the Mediterranean not quite dark enough to be called 'Navy'.  Irony.

With some euro coins I'd literally been lugging around for years, I bought taxi fare (yea!) to the ferry.  El Porteo.  Spanish - the easy language.  Compared to Arabic anyway.

Taxi - Ferry - Taxi - wait my ass for the bus.

Seven hours of waiting my ass for the bus.

While I was waiting a couple decided to hang out near me with their super noisy kid.  Thought about the eventual heat death of the universe to cheer up.

Getting to Seville ("Sev - eee - yah") is easy but for some reason the 'doorway to Portugal and big time tourist hub' Faro is not.

Decided to find food.  Nothing near the bus stop I was at - not the main bus stop apparently.  It was in a neighborhood which had been so gentrified it creaked.  Found a bar that served taipas.  Confused the bar tender that I knew taipas means 'little hat' but my Spanish was so bad.  Drank some beer and ate pork.  Good to be out of a Muslim country just for those things.

Back at the bus station the driver says "Good evening sir, where are you headed?"
Faro.
"You might need to change buses."
Why?
And suddenly, his English fails him.  As does his Spanish.  We are in Spain.  Amazing.

Got in to Faro at 2 AM.

Found the hostel (with directions and help) got a bed.  Slept in my clothing.

Got woken up by an idiot who decided talking on his cell phone in the sleeping room for a half an hour was OK.  Gave me the thumbs up.  Told me he was sorry.  Told him he was not.  Unbelievable.  Especially since there is a whole downstairs area he could hang out and talk on the phone.  Fucking people.

Met a guest at the hostel who was what I would describe as 'militantly chilled out'.  He would lecture people about how they should be as chilled out as he was.  Amazing.

Told the owner of the hostel I was looking for a place to stay.  He makes a call to an acquaintance.   She showed up a bit over an hour late for the appointment.  I get told by the militant chiller how I should be more chilled out.

I go with her to see a place she is renting.

Logan:  "Looks fine."
Her:  "It is 25 euros per day."
Logan:  "I was told it was 15 euros a day.  That is why I came."
Her:  "That is for the place upstairs which is already rented."
Logan:  "I can only afford 15 euros a day.  That is what the man who called you told me.  That is why I came."

Eventually, she dropped at 18 ("Final price") but I just kept repeating  about 15.  Eventually, I thanked her and left.  Made it about a block before she called me back.

She can do 15 euros per day.

Would it be better for you to pay by the week or the month she asks?  Of course I jump on the by the week.  What would be the downside to me?

"But you must pay me for eight days."
Logan:  So you will show up on Wednesday to get eight more days?  Then next week on Thursday?  That sounds very confusing.  How about I just pay you for seven days and you show up every Tuesday to get more money?  Wouldn't that be more simple?"

She looked displeased but agreed.  Maybe she thought I would pay eight days every seven.  I have no idea what is up with that.

The place itself is about three times as large as I need.  Tomorrow, Maria the lady who does the cleaning, will show up to show me how to use an overly complicated washing machine.

Why they make them complicated (more options are not always needed) and why people buy complicated ones for rental property is something I don't really understand.

The security here is pretty sad - I think with one rigid piece of metal I could be in to the apartment, possibly the building.

But it's better than a hostel.

Overall, Portugal is freakishly clean  - especially compared with Morocco.  There aren't even cigarette butts on the ground.  So I'm taking extra care to keep that clean as well.

While I was out earlier, I picked up a nice bottle of Jameson whiskey for just 12 euros (wow!) and will drink some or all of that tonight.

Yea!

[Edit:  Renting lady:  "Do you have a passport?"  Logan (with great confidence)  "Yes I do!"  And it was never brought up - nor viewed - again.]





HEAVEN

Imagine this. What if Heaven were real? Just imagine that for a moment. And imagine it was good - not at all like North Korea where you just sit around worshiping the mighty leader like it says you do in the Bible. OK - so now we have a good heaven.

If people really believed it, they'd work on dying faster.

People who really believed would take up really dangerous hobbies like skydiving simply because if they died, they win. Or, if they weren't sure, they'd go street preaching in countries that really hate Christians and put them to death because the bible says that if you get martyred for your faith it's a free pass.

Everyone wants to go to heaven, but nobody wants to die.

To paraphrase a quote, "I find their lack of faith disturbing."